


Lose everything in chains

by flesh



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-29
Updated: 2011-12-29
Packaged: 2017-10-28 09:21:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/306369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flesh/pseuds/flesh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jensen the body-slave falls into the possession of the terrorist/freedom-fighter Jeffrey Dean Morgan, the very same man who executed Jensen's previous master. Things don't go as badly as Jensen expects. Or they go worse. Some sexual skeeviness hinted at, but nothing graphic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lose everything in chains

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bertee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bertee/gifts).



> Written for bertee, on the occasion of her birthday. This is the most absurdly schmoopy/angsty Jensen/JDM slavefic I could come up with for her. She deserves this and far far better things for being the awesome woman that she is. Apologies that this was written at speed and may probably show it.

There have been several pretty terrifying nights in Jensen's life. It's to be expected for body-slaves. But the night that his master took a bullet in the brainpan – which was a cleaner death than the Governor afforded most of his political enemies and personal rivals –  and possession of Jensen was forcibly taken by Jeff Morgan, rates high on the list.

Some people call Jeff Morgan a freedom fighter and a hero. Other people call him a sociopath terrorist, though presumably not to his face, unless you're in the mood to have your teeth punched down your throat because the guy is also a touchy bastard, so they say.

They say a lot about Jeff Morgan. Jensen's heard it all. He sat obediently at the Governor's feet, available to be petted and touched, while people talked over his head. For these people, the rich and the corrupt, Jeff Morgan's another name for the devil. And some of the gossip was so obscene, so unnatural and bestial, that Jensen couldn't help a shiver. While he was well-used by the governor, he was under no illusions that his master's petty sadism was not far more tame than Jeff Morgan's rumoured appetites.

And now, Jensen's standing in Jeff Morgan's bedroom, his heart beating hard, in front of the man himself.

As if being at the mercy of a man like Morgan isn't bad enough, Jensen's trying not to cringe under the weight of a pounding headache, while his vision blurs alarmingly and a cold sweat makes him shiver. If he's lucky, whatever it is he's suffering from will kill him before Jeff Morgan gets chance to so much as undress him. Of course, if Jensen were lucky, he'd never have been born pretty enough to catch the governor's attention.

He keeps his eyes on the floor but he got a look at the room when he was hauled in. It's much simpler than the bedrooms Jensen was used to at the Governor's Palace. It's plain, windowless, the brightest patch of light being the widescreen television on the wall, showing a news channel on mute. There's a king-size bed, by the side of which Jensen has been positioned. Facing the bed is a large built-in closet, and on either side of that are doorways that seem to lead through to another room.

Jensen watches the floor, head subserviently bowed, as much out of instinctive panicked submission as training. Jeff's presence in the room is hot and it prickles Jensen's skin.

At once, Jeff's shadow looms towards him, and Jensen's breathing goes fast, and he's sure he's going to throw up, and he knows Jeff Morgan's a sick-minded pervert but he's also got the temper of an Old Testament God, so Jensen's not sure if he's got to worry more about being kicked or fucked to death. That's if he's not discounting the possibility of a little of both.

A hand on his jaw tilts his face up, and Jensen automatically allows himself to be manhandled, although his gaze darts away to a far corner of the room without meeting Jeff's.

Jeff makes a noise in the back of his throat, and Jensen can't help a nervous swallow.

"And what do you do, huh, sweetheart?" Jeff says.

The only time Jensen heard him speak before was when he was shouting out orders to his troops storming the palace. It wasn't anything like as stickily intimate as the smouldering roll of the way he's addressing Jensen. It strips Jensen half-naked already.

"Anything you want me to, Sir," says Jensen, impressively level considering the sickly roiling in his belly and the cold terror in his chest.

Jeff's quiet at that. Jensen doesn't dare look at him.

"You know," says Jeff, "I've had virgins who trembled less than you are now. M'I really that fearsome a prospect?"

Trying to shake his head turns out to be a bad idea for Jensen, because the movement makes the whole room shudder and his legs slide out from under him. A strong arm catches him before he can fall, and he's suddenly held far too close to Jeff Morgan, with no choice but to look into the man's smoky gray eyes. Jeff's hot and intimidatingly firm against him. Jensen's trapped against Jeff's chest, even more conscious of the chills wracking his body.

"Hey, beautiful, you're not tryin' to faint on me, are you?" Jeff asks easily, head cocked. Then his eyes narrow, the slightest hint of a smile dropping from his lips. "You're sick, kid."

Jensen pushes his palm against Jeff's chest, trying to lever himself into a standing position and out of the danger zone of proximity to Jeff. "Not really. Just a cold."

Jeff isn't letting him go, holds him like he's nothing, and that would be unsettling enough to Jensen, but the intensity of Jeff's gaze as he studies Jensen strips him bare.

"Bed," says Jeff at last, and Jensen can't help a desperately unhappy little moan at that. He doesn’t fight as Jeff all but sweeps him off his feet to deposit him on the bed. Fighting would be pointless. He concentrates on praying that he'll pass out before Jeff can really get started on him, let Jeff do what he wants so long Jensen doesn't have to be conscious through it.

But Jeff simply slides him under the covers, easy as he would a child, and tucks them up around his chin. The last time anyone did that for Jensen it was his mom, so many years ago now it feels like legend. Jeff fusses with the blankets a little, then makes a dissatisfied noise and disappears out of Jensen's line of vision. Then he's back, dragging a space heater from the corner and positioning it to point at the bed. The machine hums and glows, and Jensen allows himself to be lulled by it.

From somewhere in the warm fog above Jensen's head, Jeff's voice says, "You're still shaking." It sounds distinctly like criticism.

"I'm so sorry, Sir," says Jensen through chattering teeth. He tries, without much success, to tell his shivering to stop.

Jeff sighs. Two thumps as he kicks his boots off. Then the bed lurches and he's at Jensen's back, fitting his bigger body around Jensen, until Jensen's swallowed up by him, covered by his solid muscle and strength. His beard scratches the back of Jensen's neck as he settles. He puts his arm around Jensen's middle and pulls him in that impossible inch closer.

Before Jensen drifts off into unexpectedly comfortable sleep, he hears Jeff mutter, "Not exactly how I'd planned to bed you."

:::

Jensen wakes to a deep sense of mortification. He's amazed and humiliated by his own behaviour. He made Jeff Morgan – Jeff fucking Morgan – play nursemaid to him. Jeff is a terrifying sonofabitch and also his new master, and Jensen can be in no doubt about the fact that he made a fucking awful first impression. A body-slave should never allow their own personal problems to interfere with the proper servicing of their master.

And instead of even trying to serve his new master, depraved vigilante killing machine that the man is, Jensen passed out instead.

He sits up in the bed, cradles his still aching head in his hands, and wallows in his own misery.

"How'd you feel?"

Jensen freezes. He is alone in the bed but apparently not in the room. And he'd thought he must have imagined the devastating impact of Jeff's voice in some sickness-addled haze. Not so.

Jensen hurriedly pushes the blankets back on the bed, tries to tidy them as he climbs out, before stopping. Undoubtedly Jeff will want to screw him on the bed and Jensen's attempts to make the bed may suggest he is not willing. A body-slave is always willing, unless previously informed by their master that a little fighting and crying and begging to stop would be desirable.

"I feel fine, thank you, Sir."

Jeff is leaning in one of the doorways by the closet, and he pushes himself upright to approach Jensen. Jensen manages not to draw back.

"How do you feel?" Jeff says again. The stern look in his eye suggests Jensen might want to try telling the truth this time.

Jensen fumbles for an answer that is truthful but which won't unnecessarily burden his master in any way. "Better than I did last night, Sir." He wets his lips before he continues, hesitates as he notes how Jeff's attention zeroes in on his mouth. "I apologise for last night. It won't happen again."

"You were sick, kid. It happens."

"All the same, I apologise."

Jeff steps in even closer, close enough that Jensen can hear the rhythm of his breathing, see the silvery lines running through his hair and beard and the flecks of colour in his heavy-lidded eyes.

"Sweetheart, in case you can't tell, I'm new to this. Never had a body-slave before. Not quite sure what I'm s'posed to do with you. But way I hear it, I make the rules. So if I tell you you don't need to apologise, I don't wanna hear you apologising."

A thrill of something that's not entirely made of fear or sickness makes Jensen shiver again.

"Yes, Sir."

:::

Jeff wasn't lying: he doesn't know what to do with Jensen. He doesn't show up much in the bedroom, and when he does, it's usually just to grab a change of clothes or pick up some weaponry.

That's why it takes him a while to notice that Jensen is slowly but surely starving to death.   
  
"Kid, there's a kitchen," he says, studying Jensen like he's missing an angle on this. "Just down the hall. And there are always folks around, for you to ask, in case you couldn't find the kitchen. Which is _just down the hall_."

"Yes, Sir," Jensen says obediently.

Jeff gazes at him intently, eyes narrowed. He raises an eyebrow, waiting. "You mind telling me what I'm not getting here?"

Jensen bites his lip. In hindsight, he kind of wishes he'd handled this differently. "You didn't tell me I was allowed to leave your room. There's water in the bathroom and I assumed you meant me to restrict myself to that until you…" Jensen trails off uncertainly and shrugs. "I'm sorry, Sir. I didn't know what your intentions were for me and it's not my place to ask."

With a low drawing in of breath, which sounds like it's building up to some violent cursing, Jeff turns away. He paces the room. His hands clench into fists, before relaxing again, but Jensen readies himself all the same. The Governor used corporal punishment when it suited him, as often when Jensen's offence was real as when imagined. The Governor enjoyed inflicting pain, and the familiarity of it would be almost a relief. Judging from the Governor's enjoyment of it, Jensen assumes he gives a very pleasing response, and perhaps Jeff would enjoy it too. Jeff is a hard man to please.

But Jeff's hands, though they might curl into fists, stay at his sides.

"I don't have time for this, Jensen," he says instead. "I'm fighting a war on all fronts, and you're s'posed to be making my life easier, not giving me one more thing to worry about."

Stricken with shame, Jensen bows his head. Jeff has used his name for the first time, not _kid_ or _sweetheart_ or any other of those lazily drawled out endearments. Jensen didn't even know Jeff knew his name.

"I'm sorry, Sir."

Jeff sighs again, a disappointed noise that wounds Jensen even more deeply.

He grips Jensen's jaw between his thumb and forefinger, jerks his face up not so gently. "You belong to me. I own you." He hesitates, and Jensen sees something he doesn't understand spark in Jeff's eyes. "I own you," Jeff says again, a new note of hoarseness in his voice, like he's only just realising the truth of that now. "And I expect you to take care of my property. You understand?"

Jensen would nod, would agree to it all, except Jeff's holding onto him too tightly.

:::

In lieu of Jeff making any demands of him, Jensen tries to find his own ways to be useful.

Really, knowing what he does of the man, he should have figured that this would only piss Jeff off too.

"I'm a grown man, sweetheart," says Jeff, voice just on the cool side of cutting. "If I decide I need my t-shirts ironed, I will do it my goddamn self. If I need blood or grease washed out of my clothes, I will do that too. I already have a mother, and if I needed a housekeeper, I'd fucking well hire one."

Jensen clenches his jaw. "It's my place to look after you, Sir," he says tightly. "It's what a body-slave does."

Jeff fixes Jensen with a steely-eyed look, and all Jensen's frustrated irritation shrinks beneath his recollection that Jeff could end him with one hand on his throat.

Slow and deadly, Jeff says, "Stop. Ironing. My t-shirts."

:::

So Jensen reconsiders his approach. It’s an obvious mistake he made, perhaps; Jeff is a different beast entirely to the Governor. Jeff doesn’t want to be taken care of, not in soft, spoiled ways. 

Jensen was not the Governor’s most highly prized body-slave simply for his prodigious skill at sucking cock, although that was certainly a point in his favor. He can find other ways to make Jeff happy. 

His first step is to find clothes a little more practical than the barely-there outfit he was wearing when Jeff took him from the palace. Caroline, a pretty woman with cropped black hair and an English accent, takes pity on him and shows him to a closet in the laundry room. She takes out jeans and boots, and a large winter-blue hoodie.

“They’re cast-offs, but they should do.” She tosses them to Jensen, laughing. “Sorry, glamor-boy. No spangles and silk for you.” 

Jensen’s cheeks heat, and he looks at her sharply, but where he expects to find mockery, there’s none. 

“Thank you,” he says. “Can you tell me where I can find Jeff’s motorcycle?”

He’s never washed a motorcyle before, but the Governor had him wash and detail his Lexus and vintage Cadillac more than once, and Jensen doesn’t think it can be that different. He takes his bucket of soapy water and a sponge, and makes his way down to the garage, where the motorcycle is parked on a patch of ground in the open air. 

Jeff’s motorcycle is big and dark, the machinery itself a glint of silver. Jensen slows as he approaches it. The motorcycle is ominous and it radiates the same sense of risk as its master. 

“You allowed near that?” someone calls, and Jensen turns to see a sentry watching him from the line of the barbed wire fence. The guy’s smoking and his stance seems laidback, but he seems comfortable with the weight of the rifle slung over his back. 

“Jeff expects me to take care of his property,” Jensen replies primly.

He pays the sentry no further mind; the motorcycle is far more worthy. 

Jensen revels in being allowed to show the machine all the care and attention Jeff doesn’t want from him. He runs the wet sponge over the planes of the motorcycle, washes away road-dirt and dust to reveal the glistening expanse of metal. He imagines being allowed to do this for Jeff, being allowed into the shower with him, being allowed to drop to his knees to worship every part of Jeff’s body. Unbidden, the memory of Jeff lying with him on the bed resurfaces, how warm and solid he’d been, and how he’d wrapped Jensen up in his arms so entirely that Jensen had felt cherished.

He’s left Jensen to sleep alone every night since. 

“Kid, did I _ask_ you to do that?”

Jensen’s hand stills on the motorcycle’s flank, water dripping from his fingers and dribbling down his wrist. He looks back over his shoulder. Jeff’s face is cold murder. But he’s just standing there, watching Jensen. 

“You didn’t need to, Sir.”

“You’ve been putting on quite a show, you know that?” Jeff cocks his head up a level, and Jensen looks up, and realises for the first time that the garage is overlooked by a bank of windows. “Tryin’ to figure out some tactical problems up there, important stuff, and we’ve got you down here, pretty much making out with my bike. Ain’t real helpful.”

He always sounds so placid, like Jensen could spit in his face and Jeff’d only ask if he had a handkerchief. But it stings Jensen all the same. He’s done it wrong again. It’s enough to make him wish Jeff had never rolled up outside the Governor’s Palace. At least Jensen knew how to please the Governor. 

He swallows down his frustrated hurt, drops the sponge back in the bucket. “I’m sorry, Sir. I won’t do it-”

“You’re wearing my old hoodie,” Jeff says abruptly. 

Jensen’s eyes fly wide. He’s horrified by his unintentional presumption. He can’t get the words out to apologise quickly enough. But his apology slows to a trickle then dies entirely at the hungry look on Jeff’s face. He’s breathing a little faster just taking in the sight of Jensen wearing his hoodie. It stirs a hopefulness inside of Jensen. He holds still and lets Jeff look. 

“Do you like it, Sir?” he asks quietly. “Do you like seeing me wearing your clothes?”

Jeff takes a determined step towards him, and Jensen is terrified and desperate and so damn eager. Then Jeff catches himself. Dark-eyed, he looks up at the windows, and Jensen’s halfway to begging, but he knows he’s lost him. He doesn’t know who might be watching but Jeff clearly has some idea. It’s all the mental jolt Jeff needs to get a grip on himself. 

Jensen is still afraid, even if he’s sure Jeff’s not going to touch him. Because Jeff’s still looking at him, and the weight of his gaze pins Jensen in place. He couldn’t trust his legs to run.

“Don’t touch my bike again,” says Jeff. And he’s turned his back on Jensen, is walking away, when some madness takes Jensen over. 

“What would you _like_ me to touch, Sir?” Jensen calls after him, sour, and driven so far beyond knowing what to do that even having Jeff kill him would be sweet relief. 

He’s sane enough again in a heartbeat to be grateful that Jeff ignores the jibe.

:::

Suicide, inspired by a lack of purpose in life and spite, presents itself as an option to Jensen. But he doesn’t kow how to be anything other than loyal. He belongs to Jeff; his life isn’t his own to take. 

So for a while, after Jeff makes it clear he has no use for Jensen and Jensen can find no other way to make Jeff happy than to be out of sight and out of the way, Jensen mopes. He sits in Jeff’s bedroom, and wonders if it will always be this way. He’s traded one master who makes him miserable for another. 

He exists in this state until, on one of his infrequent forays into the kitchen, he meets Jared. Jared’s the one who starts the conversation, the one who perseveres. Although Jensen doesn’t make it easy for him, Jared is relentlessly friendly. He’s a big man, taller even than Jeff, and for all his inoffensive charm, Jensen has no trouble believing he’s as dangerous as the rest of them. He seems genuinely sympathetic, even if Jensen can tell by the occasional flicker of his expression as Jensen’s talking that he doesn’t completely understand.  

“There’s gotta to be stuff that needs doing around the place,” says Jared at last. “I mean, hell, I got a ton of engineering logs that need putting in order, if you wanna do that.”

It doesn’t even begin to scratch the itch Jensen has to make Jeff want him around, but if Jeff is so sure he has no use for Jensen, then Jensen will allow himself to be used by someone else. Jared is high up on the chain of command, and making Jared’s life easier must make Jeff's life easier somehow. Jensen will be secretly useful to Jeff, and Jeff can’t find fault with him because Jeff won’t know a thing about it. 

Or that’s the plan. 

Jensen lets Jared take him back to his room, and he can’t help but be a little charmed by Jared’s surreptitious attempts to tidy the place some as Jensen looks it over. 

“Sorry,” Jared says. “Been real busy lately. Haven’t had much time to...” He trails off, feebly toeing a lone sock under the bed. 

“Where are the logs?” prompts Jensen. He retrieves the matching sock from halfway under an empty pizza box and politely offers it to Jared. 

Jared laughs even as he’s flushing, and stuffs the sock into the back pocket of his jeans. “Over here.” He gestures Jensen towards a desk stacked high with papers and folders and what looks to be a disemboweled camera. 

He tugs out a sheaf of papers, thin as butterfly wings, and holds it up in one hand. His arm is slung loosely around Jensen’s shoulders, easy enough for Jensen to slip out from should he choose. 

“Honestly, dude, I don’t know how happy putting these in order is going to make you, but you’re gonna make me one _very_ happy man.” 

Jensen laughs, is still smiling when the door opens behind them. It’s Jeff, and that kills Jensen’s good mood effectively enough. Jared though goes on grinning as he turns to greet his boss, as if he can’t see the storm in Jeff’s eyes. 

“Guess what Jensen’s gonna do for me!” Jared announces. 

Level and unshaken, Jeff says, “Wait outside.” Jensen obeys before he’s even sure the command is intended for him. The door is closed behind him. 

Not once does Jeff raise his voice. Jensen’s straining to listen, but Jeff’s not even speaking loudly enough for Jensen to hear the murmur of his voice. Jared’s got no such composure. 

“Jesus, Jeff, _no_!” he bursts out. “I can’t believe you’d even think-” 

It goes quiet again - Jeff speaking - and then the door opens and Jeff emerges. Jensen has no chance to look back through the doorway to give Jared so much as an apologetic look; Jeff puts a hand on his back and walks him back to their bedroom. 

As soon as the door’s closed, Jeff turns to Jensen, who isn’t sure what he should be apologising for this time, and says, “Did he touch you? Did he touch you in a way that made you uncomfortable? Because nobody has a god-given right to put their hands on you, and if anybody tries it when you don’t want them to -” Jeff cuts off, clearly struck by the idea. His jaw works briefly, like he’s grinding bones between his teeth. With deliberate calm, he finishes where he was going. “You’re not here to service my troops, and you have my permission to stop anyone who has trouble understanding being told ‘no’.” 

Unsure of the correct way to respond to the meat of the subject, Jensen mildly points out that, “Jared doesn’t seem the type.” 

Jeff rubs his beard ruefully, a rare hint of a smile moving his lips. “No. He’s not. And I should probably go apologise to the kid.” 

He sighs, looking so tired that Jensen’s already moving towards him when he remembers that the kind of care he wants to offer Jeff is not welcome. Jeff doesn’t seem to notice. He turns away towards the door, and it makes no sense to Jensen that Jeff won’t take what’s his and make himself feel better, if only for an hour or two. Jensen could make him feel so much better. 

“So, what am I here for, Sir?”

Jeff looks back at him. He shakes his head, too many things on his mind to try deciphering Jensen’s meaning. Jensen persists. 

“If I’m not here to service the troops and I’m not here for you, then what am I here for?” He frowns, because this kind of questioning could easily be viewed as disrespectful. But Jensen only asks because he want to know what Jeff wants from him. He only wants to know what he can do to please Jeff, to be of value to him. 

“I don’t understand why you took me if you don’t need me.”

And Jeff laughs, a thick dirty laugh. “Oh sweetheart, didn’t I tell you? I’m clueless. I don’t know what I’m s’posed to do with someone like you. I don’t know how to own another person.” His gaze lingers on Jensen a moment, before his hand comes up to touch Jensen’s jaw in the most delicate sweep of his knuckles. 

“I took you because I wanted you. That a good enough reason?” His hand drops suddenly, fingers flexing stiff in a gesture to keep Jensen at bay. “It’s the only one I’ve got.”

:::

Jeff is gone for a while then. So are Jared and Caroline. So are most of the military types. The base is a ghost town. There are just a few civilians, core security, and Jensen left. He can wander the corridors, free to go where he likes with worrying about upsetting Jeff or having to make small talk with folks who mostly don’t understand him or like him. Instead, he stays in Jeff’s room. 

Not for the first time, Jensen opens the large built-in closet and surveys Jeff’s guns and knives and other tools of his trade. There are gaps in the rack, the pieces Jeff’s taken with him. Jensen watched Jeff go, watched him climb astride his motorcycle and start it up, and watched him right out of the base with the rest of the trucks and bikes. There’s trouble brewing somewhere, but it won’t get started until Jeff arrives. 

Jensen’s long since abandoned most of what he heard about Jeff at the Governor’s Palace. Jeff is brutal and cold-blooded, unfazed by the act of killing, but he has an old-fashioned kind of honor. He’s doing what he can for a world most people have given up on. 

Since Jeff is not there to criticise him for it, Jensen begins methodically cleaning each and every item in the armory. He spends the next three days cleaning, sleeps surrounded by Jeff’s guns, eats his meals sitting on Jeff’s bed, facing the open closet.

On the fourth day, he hears the roar of Jeff’s motorcycle, carried from somewhere not too far away. His hands tremble momentarily, the knife he’s sharpening almost slipping from his grip. But he stays in Jeff’s room and waits; if Jeff wants him, he knows where to find him. 

It’s almost an hour before Jeff shows up. Jensen doesn’t look up at his arrival, instead calmly continues dragging the blade against the whetstone. 

Jeff heaves a sigh. “Jesus, kid.”

“I wanted to, Sir,” says Jensen, unflustered. “I had to find _something_ to do.”

Again, Jeff sighs. But he doesn’t argue. He passes Jensen by and heads to the bathroom. He disappears out of sight and, moments later, the shower starts up.  

Jensen tests his thumb against the edge and decides it needs more work. 

The knife still hasn’t reached Jensen’s standard of perfect by the time Jeff emerges from the shower. Jensen waits until Jeff is fixing himself a drink before he sneaks a quick look at him. His hair is still crisp and damp, and the back of his black t-shirt clings to his shoulders and spine. Most importantly, he appears unhurt. 

He sits in his chair, occasionally moistening his lips with the whiskey from the tumbler in his hand, and he watches Jensen work. 

“This make you happy?” he says. He makes a loose circling gesture with his tumbler, encompassing the neat lines of his weapons and Jensen on his knees in the center of them. His voice is roughened by alcohol and exhaustion, his eyes are a dull burn.

“I like to be useful.” 

Jeff nods at this, acknowledging an answer rather than necessarily agreeing with the sentiment. He doesn’t take his eyes off Jensen, though his gaze sharpens threateningly when Jensen subtly repositions himself at Jeff’s feet. 

Jensen concentrates on the knife in his hand. Something brushes his hair, and he stills, just for a second, because Jeff is touching him, simply the sweetest, most mindless touching. Then his hands resume their work, even while Jeff is combing his fingers through Jensen’s hair. 

“I took you because you were beautiful. I took you because he’d had you and I wanted you.” Jeff’s hand falters, and Jensen turns his face up to him, unwilling to let the moment pass just yet. Jeff traces the curve of Jensen’s mouth, and the gentleness of it makes Jensen ache. “And I’d’a been as much a bastard as him, because I would’a fucked you like I had some kind of right to.”

Jensen tilts his face into Jeff’s hand, mouths lightly at Jeff’s thumb, takes him between the softness of his lips until he’s sure Jeff has to be thinking of what else he could do to Jensen’s mouth. He hears Jeff’s breath quicken, hears him curse, quietly and viciously. 

“But you were ill,” says Jeff. His thumb holds Jensen’s mouth open, while he allows Jensen to suck and lick at him. “Drives me crazy knowing what I almost did to you before I realised how fucked up it was. And, sweetheart, I gotta be honest, I don’t think I’m cut out for owning a slave. I don’t know what to do with you now I’ve got you. I don’t know how to make you happy.”

Jensen pauses in his attentions, lips resting against Jeff’s thick knuckles. He can’t breathe around the fluttering beat of his heart. Greatly daring, he angles a look up at Jeff through darkly lowered lashes. 

“You could always ask.” He kisses Jeff’s knuckles, all tongue and a press of lips. “Then again, I’m kinda surprised you’d need to.”

A frown clouds Jeff’s face, before understanding strikes. That light in his eyes, hungry and dangerous, sparks again. 

“Sweetheart, tell me this isn’t a repeat of the time you didn’t feed yourself until I ordered you to.” He takes Jensen’s face in one big hand and draws him up on his knees, towards Jeff’s mouth. “Tell me I haven’t left you waiting and wanting because you’re too damn well-behaved to make the first move.”

“Wasn’t my place,” Jensen says faintly. “If you wanted me, you would have just taken me.”

Jeff makes a deep, angry sound that is definitely a growl. He pulls Jensen up closer, until he can get a good grip on him to settle him on his knee.

“Poor, pretty baby,” he murmurs. He kisses Jensen’s neck, nuzzles him like he's doing it just to hear the noises Jensen makes as Jeff scratches the soft skin of his throat mercilessly with his bearded cheek. “You been needing me to take care of you? You been needing me to take some time with you? Oh sweetheart, I’ll take such good care of you. Whenever you’re needing it, you just tell me, and I’ll give it to you, all you could want.”

Jeff’s mouth tastes of his whiskey. The way Jeff kisses him is so fierce that Jensen is brutalised by it. And he wants more, and Jeff’s going to make sure he gets more, as much as he can take. He knows Jeff’s already thinking about fucking him, about how he’s going to throw Jensen around in his bed, getting his dick in him any way he can, any way he likes. 

“Bed,” says Jeff. 

Jensen doesn’t need telling twice. 

:::

When he wakes, Jensen’s first thought is that he feels like he’s been fucked by an entire unit of soldiers. Passed around between ‘em a couple of times maybe. But no. Just by Jeff. And Jensen may be a professional, may have long practice in getting fucked, but Jeff can work him so hard it makes Jensen’s knees shake. 

Just thinking about Jeff puts a ridiculously pleased smile on Jensen’s face. He smoothes his hand down the other half of the bed, frowns when he doesn’t find Jeff there. He sits up and is able to relax when he sees Jeff in his chair, watching the news channel. 

“Morning, gorgeous,” Jeff says, when he sees Jensen’s awake. He crosses to the bed and, two fingers under Jensen’s chin, turns Jensen’s face up to his in order to kiss him languorously. It’s an intimate enough kiss to give Jensen a vivid and deeply enjoyable flashback to last night. “Let me get you some coffee.” 

Jensen watches him out of the room, choosing not to reiterate the point that Jeff is hopelessly bad at knowing how to treat slaves. He’s pretty sure he likes it that way. 

~end


End file.
